Out of Breath
by Old English Game
Summary: "But then it seemed it was like a loaded spring, because all of a sudden everything deflated and it tore the breath out of Stalag 13." For D-Day's 75th Anniversary and Abracadebra's challenge.
1. Chapter 1

For Hogan's team, and most of Stalag 13, there wasn't any chance for excitement or worry or gawking at the volume of what was about to happen, because they themselves were caught up in the whole mess of getting the Field Marshall's wife out of Stalag 13, and running interference for the mission, and whatnot.

But then it seemed it was like a loaded spring, because all of a sudden everything deflated and it tore the breath out of Stalag 13.

Colonel Hogan didn't think there had ever been a time when the recreation hut wasn't a mass of people, cigarette smoke, carrying the nostalgia of a scratched record. Now it was a silent creaking of chairs, clearing of throats, and tapping fingers. Donny Addison was on the piano. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Hogan vaguely remembered hearing when it was finally tuned. Addison was probably the best player in Stalag 13, and now some peoples' eyes were on him and others stared at some undefined point, and several glanced up as Hogan walked in. Most nodded, a couple saluted absently, and Kinch tapped his fingers at the empty spot on the table. Hogan sat.

Donny missed a note, and then several, and then, frustrated, he dropped his hands. They shook.

"Did we win?" He asked quietly.

All eyes turned to Hogan.

And Hogan was a commander. Commanders didn't breath casualties. They walked ground gained.

"Yeah," He said, "We won."

**This should be a short series of shots of our various characters, published over the next day or two or so. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Kinch found Grenadier Hertz sitting on the steps of one of the office buildings, head rested in his hand and eyes closed.**

**"You okay?" He asked after a moment, sitting down. It was safe for him to speak German, most of the guards knew he did.**

He opened his eyes and they were glassy, "Mm."

"What you thinking about?"

He sighed deeply, "I used to sit on the back porch. In the sun like this," He smiled sadly, "There were a lot of us, it was the only place I could get some quiet," Then his smile faded and he swallowed hard. "The Russians got Klaus."

"I'm sorry," Kinch said.

He shrugged, and then asked, "What's the word for when it feels like you've got a snake slithering around in your chest? Erschrocken?"

"Scared," Kinch said.

He nodded, and then drew a shaky breath, "That's what it is." His arms wrapped tightly around himself, although not in the loose, seemingly carefree way Colonel Hogan did.

"Hey," Kinch said, "We'll put in a good word for you. We all will."

He nodded and managed a wan smile, "Danke."


	3. Chapter 3

Wilhelm Klink set down the phone frowned at his desk.

They were still fighting. For a half of a second, he wondered if he should have been there, for his country. And then he remembered all of World War One. He didn't need to fight again.

There were, unfortunately, thousands of others who were fighting instead.

_Fight, boys._ He reached for his pen again and tried to push all of it out of his head. _Fight._


	4. Chapter 4

Karl Langenscheidt wanted a lot of things. He wanted the war to be over. He wanted to be able to go home after it was all said and done. He wanted his family to stay safe, and he wanted his friends to be okay, and he wanted people to stop killing each other and he wanted to be allowed to speak his mind.

Right now, though, what he really, truly wanted was for Colonel Hogan to be quiet.

"So, anyway, then I said to Newkirk, 'Well, I mean they might even be here by Thanksgiving, if they'd get a move on, the way they sliced through the Krauts - no offense, of course, Langenscheidt - like butter," This was accompanied by many more comments, jeers, and laughing that was beginning to grate on his nerves.

And it hadn't been a knife through butter. Langenscheidt didn't know the casualties on the American side, they never spoke of casualties on the American side. But there was too much bloodshed on either side, and the Americans covered it up by mocking their enemy and the Germans covered it up by pretending they still had pride.

"Please, Colonel Hogan," He said finally, "Can I not just finish roll call and get it over with?"

The Colonel looked at him, and softened a little, and said, "Alright, Langenscheidt," And he nodded to his men, and they quieted.

Langenscheidt finished the count, made his report, and they parted their ways.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson sat on the bench outside the infirmary, frowning across the compound at the droopy roses in Klink's garden. Nobody was sick today. He'd reorganized the medicine cupboard and swept the infirmary and cleaned the windows, and he didn't feel like reading the book Loewe had given him and he didn't feel like playing cards. He wasn't sure what he felt like doing, but whatever he wanted to do, he was reasonably certain sitting out here on a bench wasn't it. But that was what he was doing. He had a cold cup of coffee in his hands and occasionally took a sip, and made a face, and told himself he was going to go get a new cup, but then in another few minutes he repeated the cycle.

He wondered how many soldiers had needed a medic these past days. He wondered how many men had died because they couldn't get enough pressure on a wound or didn't get a shot of penicillin before infection set in, or didn't have anybody to prop them up and try to save them.

_Wish I'd been there._ A shadow fell over his feet.

"Hi," Loewe sat down next to him.

Wilson grunted a reply.

"You wishing you'd been there?" He asked.

Wilson gave him a look.

"Please don't," He said.

He shrugged, "I could've helped."

"But you're helping here."

"Someone else could've helped here. Rosen's a decent guy."

"Well, sure," Loewe said, and then he said quietly, "But I'm glad we've got _you."_

Wilson looked at him, and almost smiled. Almost. "Thanks, kid."


	6. Chapter 6

It was at least three weeks after the day, and the mail arrived.

The man was striding back and forth in a deserted section of the camp, great, long strides, his hands twitching and running through his hair and driving into his pockets, and breathing hard.

"Hey," Foster said, and suddenly his back slammed into the barracks wall and his shirt was in the man's fists.

In the next minute his face paled and he stepped back, "Oh, God," He murmured, "I'm sorry. Sorry. I - I'm sorry. God." He ran his hands through his hair again.

"It's okay," Foster stood up, "What happened?"

He threw up his hands, and then shoved them in his pockets, and then ducked his head and shook it, and then his voice cracked and he mumbled, "My little brother."

"Okay," Foster took his arm and led him toward the bench, "Sit down."

"Port beach," He said, "Port beach."

"Okay," Foster said.

He nodded.

"You breathe, all right?"

"Yeah," He said, resting his head in his hands, "Okay."

"That's it," Foster said "Breathe."


	7. Chapter 7

_Rodney,_

_George was killed June 6._

_Letter to follow._

_God bless_

_Tobias_

"Sir?" The voice reached him and Crittendon almost dropped the postcard, "You okay?"

"Oh," He tucked it in his pocket and looked around at his command, tearing into letters and packages with the excitement of children on Christmas morning,"Yes, I'll be fine. What's all the news from home, then?"


	8. Chapter 8

"He says he's okay," Carter said, frowning at the letter.

The group sitting at the table looked up, "Who's that?" Newkirk asked.

"My cousin," He said, "Not Angry Rabbit, this one's from the other side. Jonathan. He was on the beaches."

This caught some more attention.

"He's okay, though," Olsen said, "That's good."

"I dunno," Carter frowned, "He don't sound okay."

The rest exchanged glances. Carter dismal was surreal.

"He's alive, at least," Kinch said, "That's a lot better than the alternative."

Carter shrugged, "Yeah."

"He really don't sound okay?" Newkirk said.

Carter shook his head, "And his writing's shaky. You think he was hurt?"

"He might've been," LeBeau said, "But he's well enough to write a letter, he's well enough to make it home."

"Okay," Carter smiled shakily, "Yeah, you're right." He looked back at the letter, sounding unconvinced, "Yeah."


	9. Chapter 9

"Hey, Newkirk?" Carter was sitting right up against his friend. For June, the day was cold, and his coat wouldn't ever be thick enough to keep out prison-camp cold.

"Mmm?" Newkirk had retreated as far as possible into his greatcoat.

"You think it'll be worth it someday?"

Even though he knew exactly what the American was talking about, he said, "What?"

"The war," Carter said, "D-Day. They don't even know how many people died yet."

Newkirk sighed, "For once, Carter, I'll be the optimistic one."

"Yeah?"

"I think it will," Newkirk said, "A hundred years from now, when we've won - and we're going to win, for sure, now - I don't have to worry that any of my grandkids or great-grandkids or anyone else is going to have to live like this," He waved his hand about.

"In a prison camp?" Carter asked.

"No, Andrew," Newkirk sighed, "If they get thrown in prison it'll be because they've done something stupid to earn it. But - everyone in Germany's scared of everyone else, and if Hitler were to win," He shrugged, "It's a good thing he's not going to."

"Yeah," Carter nodded.

"So it's worth it," Newkirk said, "Maybe it doesn't seem like it right now. But it'll be worth it."

End.


End file.
